Regression
by storiewriter
Summary: Healing is not a smooth process, and six months after the warehouse, Bentley faces a setback on the road to recovery. (Transcendence AU, art by zilleniose)


**A/N:** Blame zilleniose (mod z) for this.

* * *

Bentley fell asleep the way he had for the past several months: a slow, increasing weight to the eyelids, the knowledge of being aware but feeling too heavy to wake, and a quieting fear that he will dream.

He hasn't dreamed in such a long time, he told himself. He has Alcor. He has Dipper. He will be fine. Everything will be fine. Then Bentley felt something run over his wrist, felt something slide up the side of his face, and he opened his eyes.

Alcor was there, smiling in a way that was only surface deep. His teeth were exposed to the air, and the lighting was odd—flickering blue light. Bentley would call the expression on his face fond if there weren't for the too-big smile. "Al—Dipper? What's…"

"Did you sleep well?" Alcor crooned, leaning forward, chin on his palm. His claws drummed against his bottom lip, sharper than usual and glinting cold light. Bentley frowned, lifted his eyes to the air beyond Alcor. It was dark out there, and painted in fuzzy shades of gray.

He met Alcor's half-lidded gaze. "What's happening?"

"Not much," Alcor murmured, floating up so that he was upside down. He never turned his face from Bentley's, and Bentley felt a chill of unease settle in his chest. "Just…doing something that has been a long time coming."

The pressure around his wrist tightened, and Bentley felt something curling around his neck. He gasped at the sensation and looked down to see the tendrils from the fishery warehouse wrapped around him. He opened his mouth to let out a scream, but all that came out was a strangled whimper as his air was cut down.

He looked back up at Alcor, who was still floating with his head tipped back. His chest tightened of its own accord, and his vision became indistinct with tears. Bentley croaked, "Why?"

Alcor laughed, horrid and high and Bentley's heart ached. "Oh Bentley, what's the matter? Noose around your neck?"

"Alcor, why?" He choked, and the thick tendril released his neck only to wrap around his mouth and curl around the back of his head. Where was his pillow? Where was his bed? Where were they?

"Oh, Bentley Bentley _Bentley_!" Alcor said, grinning too wide and turning around mid-air. His face smiled but his eyes were hard and cruel, and Bentley tried to pull away. He got all of a handful of centimeters before Alcor clicked his tongue and he couldn't move. Bentley wanted to scream but he couldn't, he _couldn't_!

"Bentley, don't you know better?" Alcor swooped in close, laid a freezing hand on Bentley's cheek the way he had last night when Bentley was half asleep, but there were no tears in his eyes and there was no trembling voice, only smooth laughter and clear cold eyes. The fingernails dragged down Bentley's cheek, and he understood the implied threat behind the pressure there.

He gurgled, deep in the back of his throat.

"You've read your father's books, his research—you've even read reports at school! You may be many things, but you're not stupid. Don't you know?" Alcor drew in closer, nose centimeters from Bentley's, and all he could see through a film of tears were Alcor's gold pupils against black sclera. "The only thing more delicious to a demon than a human's flesh is their soul."

His finger trailed down to Bentley's chin, and tipped it up. Bentley's breath hitched as he made the connection, and he tried to tense his arms and kick his feet but they wouldn't listen.

"And I've already got yours on a silver platter," Alcor crooned, eyes crinkling the way they had when Alcor had pulled out that (has to be fake has to be fake how could Bentley have trusted him?) scrapbook, and then there was a flash of teeth and—

Bentley woke, gasping, breath rattling through his throat. He fisted his hands around the sheets and hunched over his bed. The light by the bedside table shone blue.

Without thinking, he lashed out with one hand and it crashed against the wall, cracking but not breaking. His shoulders heaved and he couldn't pull in enough breath, he couldn't push it out fast enough.

The air in the room shifted, and there was Alcor, dark and lit in blue by his nightlight. "Bentley? Was there another nightmare, are you—"

Bentley pushed himself back against the headboard hard, knees to his chest and arms flung out, and screamed. "No!"

Alcor floated forward, one arm lifted. The concern in his eyes couldn't be real; the only thing tastier than human flesh was human soul and Alcor had already eaten him once. "Bentley, what's—"

"Get away!" Bentley howled, pushing his heels against the bed to get away but the headboard was there and all he did was shove his blankets off the mattress. "Get away get away get away!"

"It was just a dream," Alcor said, voice quivering. "It was just a dream Bentley, I—I'm not going to hurt you."

Bentley tugged the pillow from behind his back and flung it at Alcor. If he was going to be eaten then he was going to hurt him _first_. "Get away from me!"

"I—" Alcor ducked the pillow, but instead of coming up enraged, he backed off. "I—I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll just—I—okay."

He tessered out of the room. Bentley kept his arms up, not trusting Alcor to not materialize behind him and whisper _fooled you_ before wrapping him in his eldritch-horror stomach and…

And…

Bentley shut his eyes, and opened them again. He stared at where Alcor last was, he looked down at the cracked turtle figurine, its belly filled with light-producing organisms. It was a different sort of blue, he realized.

He got off the bed, knelt next to the figurine, and picked it up. The glass was fractured across its back and around its head, and Bentley stared at the way the light refracted through the crack.

Slowly, he curled one hand around the figurine and pressed the palm of the other against his eyes. "Oh, _no_ ," he murmured. "No. Shit. I. No."

His father rapped against the doorframe. "Bentley? Is everything okay?"

 _No, it's not_. "Yeah," he called out, sitting back against the bed. "It's all good."

His father didn't answer for a bit, then said, "You sure?"

"Yeah." Bentley said, and he ran his thumb over the summoning circle stitched into the bottom of the lamb's-wool sweater. "It is."

"…Call me on the phone if you need me," his father said. There was a suspicious lack of footsteps the next long minutes until Bentley heard his father move to the living room across the hall. Bentley inhaled, exhaled, and ran one finger along the crack on the turtle. In the middle of its shell, he caught the skin on sharp glass and sliced through it. Blood welled up on the side of his index finger, and he smeared a few drops on the circle.

"C'mon, Dipper," he said, slumping forwards and draping his arm across his knee. "It's fine."

He didn't come. Bentley sighed and pushed his foot against the wall. He barely reached it, even when his legs were stretched out. "Dipper."

A flicker of light and a pulling of shadow later, Dipper was floating in front of him. Bentley tensed despite himself, and noted that Dipper was younger and smaller, and he didn't move a bit. He also didn't speak.

"You're twelve," Bentley said, trying to unlock his knees.

Dipper nodded, holding his own arm. He glanced at Bentley, then slowly lowered himself until he was sitting on the floor, out of reach.

"Okay," Bentley said. "It's fine. I just—it was bad."

Dipper nodded again. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Bentley frowned, finally found it in him to relax enough to scoot closer. His heart thudded in his chest and he imagined flashing teeth, but it wasn't going to happen because _that wasn't Dipper_.

Dipper remained quiet and still, and he didn't look at Bentley for more than a few seconds at a time. Bentley tried to smile, but it felt wrong and fake on his face, so he just pulled himself forward until his nose was mere centimeters from Dipper's.

This time, Dipper didn't take his gaze away. His gaze flit between Bentley's eyes, but even though they were the same color and the same shape, they were softer and more vulnerable than Alcor's were in the dream.

Bentley drew in a breath, readied himself, then lowered his forehead onto Dipper's shoulder. Dipper tensed, and Bentley exhaled.

"I know it wasn't you," he murmured, shaking because he couldn't get rid of the _what if it was real what if he's just pretending what if what if_ , but he fisted his hands against the linoleum floor and didn't move away. "I'm sorry."

Dipper didn't need to breathe, but he sucked in a quick inhale and slid his arms around Bentley. Bentley knew he was stiff but he tried not to be, he tried to let Dipper know that it was fine, that he knew that Dipper was safe. And he knew because Dipper kept his grasp loose, because Dipper lowered his forehead to Bentley's shoulder as well, and one of his wings came up to envelop them both.

"I'm sorry," Dipper said, voice thick and eyes wet. Bentley closed his eyes and allowed himself to just feel how warm Dipper was. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

Bentley settled his weight on his knees and wrapped his arms around Dipper as well, hands settling between Dipper's wings. "I know," he said. "I know."

There was no trace of the nightmare in Dipper as he pulled Bentley closer, slowly, and pressed his wet eyes into Bentley's sweater. Bentley could still see his mocking smile imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, so he opened his eyes and stared at the stars adorning Dipper's tailcoat.

Things would get better, Bentley told himself. They had gotten better before, and they would get better again. They had to.


End file.
